He needed Katrina in his life.
* * * *
The tension in the back of the panel van was so thick it might have well been a wall. Truth be told, Katrina would prefer a wall between her and Braedon. Instead, she sat in the back of the command vehicle, jostling along a rural lane, with only Trooper Symansky to serve as a chaperone. Jack Griffin had commandeered control of the vehicle and Lieutenant Howard, with the SWAT team, had claimed shotgun.
She clutched her cup of lukewarm coffee, a poor barrier, no protection at all from seeing—and being seen by—her ex, her ex, her ex-what? It didn't really matter what she called him, did it? Over was over and an ex was an ex. What had possessed her to spill her guts like that? She'd kept a tight rein on her emotions since she'd stopped going to therapy. She could have ended their involvement without divulging the truth. Except she'd needed to tell him the truth, to unburden herself. She needed him to know her deepest secret before she fell any harder for him.
Crap. She needed to get a grip. They were on their way to a potential showdown. Her head had to be on straight. Her hands slid the coffee cup sleeve up and down, twisting it around. She fixated on the white domed lid and drew in deep breaths, feeling her head clear as she did.
Looking back up, she noticed Symansky shooting her an odd expression. “Is there something we need to know before we get to the staging area?” Katrina broke the heavy silence.
"Is there something I need to know?” The state trooper glanced back and forth between Katrina and Braedon.
"No. Everything is right here in the plans we drew up last night. I think we managed to cover all of the contingencies."
That wasn't the answer Symansky wanted but it was the only one she was going to get. No one, but no one, needed to know about the now defunct relationship.
"If you say so."
Braedon kept curiously silent during the ride and very attentive to his cup of coffee. Fine by her, that way he spared her from hearing his voice and remembering how he sounded when he called out her name—
Stop, stop, stop.
After being tortured for fifteen minutes, the panel truck pulled off the road on a gravel lane. She pushed to her feet before the vehicle came to a complete stop and sprang out of the back door. An assembled SWAT team in full gear greeted her. Braedon followed behind her, then Symansky. Griffin and Lieutenant Howard emerged from the front. Howard made introductions, leaving the explanation to Braedon. Griffin tossed them their bullet-proof vests, their blue FBI jackets, and their belts.
Hooking her bat belt around her waist, she secured all of her necessary equipment in place. Her Glock on her right, spare ammo on the left, collapsible baton at the small of her back, and cuffs in easy reach. Last and most importantly, she clipped her badge in place. She felt better, more in control, more secure than she'd felt since before they'd entered the motel room. She'd feel better if she had her personal weapon strapped to her ankle, but that was locked in her gun safe in her apartment, impossible for Griffin to retrieve, so she settled for her duty weapon.
The SWAT team left first, under the direction of Lieutenant Howard, allowing them time to surround the house and get into position. After ten minutes, Braedon led their small contingent of law enforcement officers to the site. The mile-long hike, without heavy backpacks, felt like a pleasure walk after everything they'd endured the past two weeks. Stopping just out of sight of the house, they waited for Griffin to receive the signal from Howard. Once the ten-member SWAT team secured their positions, Braedon would lead her on the final approach with Griffin and Symansky covering them.
Griffin pressed his hand to his ear then gestured them forward with a two-fingered wave. Clearing the trees, the dwelling became visible, a domed aluminum-sided structure that more closely resembled a building from Gomer Pyle than a house. Old beat-up cars littered the yard, along with car parts and all sorts of trash.
The smell assaulted her nose as soon as she closed in on the building, an overwhelming odor of cat urine. Great, just what she needed for her allergies to act up. Then an underlying tang penetrated the stench—a combination of ammonia and acetone. Not a cat problem after all.
Turning to Braedon, she gestured them back to Griffin. “We have a meth lab here."
"Are you certain?” Griffin questioned her. When she nodded, he flipped on the tiny microphone in front of his mouth to inform Howard of the new development while Symansky returned to the command vehicle to inform the local state police troop of the situation since investigation and clean-up inside of the house required a specially trained crew in hazmat suits.
Katrina knew they had to be careful. Just because they had a suspected meth lab on their hands didn't preclude the possibility that their UNSUB lurked inside. Heavy meth use caused extreme paranoia and hallucinations. Her thoughts flashed back to Braedon's off-the-cuff comment about the UNSUB being high on something.
"Okay, the state police are going to assist in this.” Symansky trotted back to the group. “They'll be here in about an hour."
"We'll wait for them to arrive.” Being the Special Agent in Charge, Griffin made the decisions.
Except that Katrina disagreed with him. “I'd rather use extreme caution and go in now. It's early in the morning, giving us the advantage. Whoever is inside that house is most likely asleep. If we act now, we can place the subject under arrest and wait for the cavalry to arrive."
"I'm with Katrina on this one."
Braedon surprised her. While she expected him to be professional in his completion of their assignment, she hadn't expected him to take her side against Griffin or anyone else. She looked at him, grateful for his support. He cocked an eyebrow at her, challenging her to say something.
"If the two of you are sure."
"We are, Jack. We can do this. Will our warrant support us on this?"
Symansky pulled the document out of her pocket and read over it. “We're still looking for evidence tied to the murders, correct?” Everyone nodded. “Then I'd say we're good. A decent defense lawyer might have a different opinion, but they always do."
Griffin turned to Katrina and Braedon. “Be careful. I don't need to tell either of you about the dangers inside that place."
"No, you don't.” Every law enforcement officer from local yocals all the way up to the FBI understood the dangers involved in raiding a meth lab. The area where the drug cooked would be a chemical toxic waste dump. Then came the risk from potential booby traps set by paranoid drug dealers. Katrina vividly remembered the Special Agent gunned down by a gun aimed at a door and set off when the door opened.
She began her cautious approach to the front door, watching the placement of every step. Braedon accompanied her, equally intent on each footfall. Reaching the concrete porch, they moved to opposite sides of the door, Braedon by the doorknob. He held up a fist and began a countdown to three, holding up his fingers one at a time. Both pulled their weapons, ready to go.
When his third finger came up, he kicked the door open and she pushed in. She advanced into the room, the smell of ammonia and acetone hitting them like a wall, so heavy it had a texture to it. Gripping her gun in front of her, she braced it with her left hand, her thumbs locking to secure the Glock. The rough surface of the grip rubbed her fingers, all but her index finger on the trigger. They'd entered a living room/kitchen, so littered with trash they had difficulty walking. The only light in the room came from the open door, the blacked-out windows allowing no illumination. An open door at the back of the room beckoned them. They moved as quickly as possible, dodging bags of trash and meth supplies.
There they found a man and a woman lying face down in bed, naked. Crossing to the sleeping couple required fighting through more junk. Neither one of them stirred as they were cuffed, despite Braedon's best efforts. It took a full fifteen minutes and a glass of water splashed on them to rouse the couple. Once they were awake enough to get dressed and walk, she Mirandized them as she escorted them out the door.
Looking at the
guy, she ruled him out as their UNSUB. He was certainly thin, but he was short, shorter than her, and right-handed. Damn. She tried not to feel too sorry for herself. They had busted a meth lab.
The state police had arrived with their hazmat team and an assistant district attorney who documented everything he found so that he could fill out an affidavit for a new search warrant, not taking any chances with the current one. Good. She liked knowing that the law enforcement personnel in this area were efficient.
The SWAT team dispersed, leaving Griffin, Symansky, Howard, Braedon, and herself to go over the information regarding the next location. It was barely past breakfast time. Most people were starting their day, enjoying their air conditioning, feeling secure in their lives.
Katrina envied them. She'd screwed up her personal life and made absolutely no progress on a case vital to her professional life. Oh, yeah, what a great day.
Chapter 8
Three up, three down. The most promising leads turned into dead ends. They'd busted a meth lab, scared an old couple into almost having matching heart attacks, and burst in on a middle-aged couple enjoying a morning round of nookie before the husband went off to work as a corrections officer at a nearby SCI-State Correctional Institute. While the CO fit the physical profile, he had an airtight alibi—he'd been at work guarding Pennsylvania's least finest citizens.
On top of everything else, the UNSUB had struck again. A college-aged couple out for a weekend jaunt before returning to school for the upcoming semester had the shit ass luck of being in the wrong fucking place at the worst fucking time. Crime scene analysis indicated the perp was becoming more crazed. It had been a bloodbath. He hadn't taken his victims unaware this time and there'd been a vicious fight. The Supervisory Special Agent from the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime had been brought to the crime scene, but SupSpAg O'Brien hadn't been able to provide any more of a profile than Katrina.
Frustration gnawed at Braedon. The case spun in circles, going nowhere fast. He was stuck with Jack, Symansky, and Howard twenty-four seven, while Katrina pulled further and further away.
And here he'd thought his life sucked when he'd been forced to leave the Air Force.
He sat in a sagging plastic chair on an unkempt patio at yet another crummy motel. The eerie blue and purple glow of the bug zapper entranced him, especially when an unsuspecting bug flew too near. The sun had finally set on another craptastic day and operational plans had been laid for the following morning's raid. Domicile number four on the list. Yet again, in the early morning hour, he and Katrina would converge on some unsuspecting homeowner. While they'd spent the past five days scaring the shit out of innocent homeowners, another pair of FBI agents hiked up and down the Appalachian Trail searching for clue needles in mountainous haystacks. More power to them.
All things considered, he'd much rather be back out on the AT, alone with Katrina. After he'd recovered from the shock of learning the identity of the passenger in his sister's car, he'd come to realize that his feelings hadn't changed, not regarding the accident or Katrina. She hadn't been the cause of the accident, his sister had. She'd been the one to get behind the wheel. Nobody forced Meg to drive home that night. She'd been the designated driver and should have known better than to have so much as one drink. His family had always been thankful the passenger hadn't been killed. He was never so grateful as now. If Katrina had died, he'd never have had the opportunity to get to know her. He'd never have fallen in love again.
Because, dammit, he did love Katrina. Without even trying, she'd wormed her way under the protective barriers he'd built around his heart after the deaths of Margaret and Serena. He'd lost them, and he'd be damned if he'd lose Katrina.
"Evening."
Braedon looked up to see Jack settling his compact frame into one of the uncomfortable chairs. The two men had shared a motel room since that first raid, but the hectic pace had prevented much conversation.
"Good evening."
"Have you given much thought to our conversation from before you left?"
Jack's tone implied it wasn't much of a question. “Yes, sir, I have. I find any insinuation that Katrina is not aboveboard and professional ludicrous. Her actions and her motivation on this assignment have been exemplary."
"You've been spying on me?"
Shit. How had she managed to sneak up on them?
"Agent Boyd.” Jack's harsh tone stopped Katrina cold.
"Yes, sir?"
"I asked Agent Powell to form an opinion in response to a query from the Office of Professional Responsibility. At the same time, the OPR conducted an investigation of the person who leveled the charges. Before I left to come here, the OPR had concluded that the charges were without merit. It seems the person who made the accusations was relieved of an assignment due to poor performance and replaced by you."
"I should have been informed, sir."
"That was not my choice to make. The OPR was in charge."
"Why bring me into it?” Braedon observed Katrina, trying to gauge her mood, but she was as blank as the walls in his apartment.
"The OPR wanted an assessment by a current partner.” Jack kept his answers short and to the point.
Katrina glared at Braedon, spun on her heel, and strode away.
"If you'll excuse me.” Well, at least it was an emotion after days of nothing.
"Certainly."
He didn't wait for Jack to respond. He sprang from his chair and followed Katrina. His long strides ate up the distance.
"Katrina.” He reached for her hand only to have her yank it from his grip.
"We were partners. You should have told me about the OPR investigation."
"I couldn't. I shouldn't have to explain that to you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her again.
"Did part of your job require you sleeping with me?"
"That was uncalled for and you know it."
"Do I?"
"Yea, you do.” He sighed, his muscles going tense. He wanted to scream. Finally alone with Katrina and she wanted to fight over something that didn't matter. “We need to talk."
Instead, she walked toward her room. Three quick strides brought him to her side. He shackled her wrist with his fingers. Staring down into her eyes, his heart broke. Her dazzling caramel-colored eyes looked flat and lifeless.
"There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't said to myself a million times over the years."
"That's where you're wrong. I don't blame you for what happened to my sister. I place the blame solely at her feet."
Her body went rock still, her spine straight. His gaze fell to her chest, rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. “How can you say that?"
"She knew she was the designated driver, right?"
"Of course."
"Had she ever had a drink any other time she'd been the D.D.?"
"No, but—"
"No buts. She chose to drink. She chose to get behind the wheel. Some days I hate her for it. But it's her I hate, not you."
Looking into her eyes, wide with emotion, she looked wild, cornered. He challenged her long and tightly held belief. He had to press her, to make her understand. He had to get through to her in order to see if they had a chance.
"I can't think about this right now. It's too much."
His fingers went slack around her wrist, but she didn't run. He took that as a good sign. The words “I love you” bubbled in his mouth, clung to his tongue, waited to be said. Now was not the time, so he swallowed them.
"I'm not giving up on you, Katrina. I'm not giving up on us. But I'll give you your space."
She mouthed a silent, thank you, then dug into her pocket for her room key and closed the door between them.
Katrina flopped on her bed, heedless of the fact that Symansky lay stretched out with a book on hers. The last thing she needed after the confrontation with Braedon was a too perceptive roommate. Maybe she'd just keep reading.
"Man probl
ems?"
So much for that hope. Not that she cared to share. She hadn't had a best girlfriend since Meg died, and had forgotten how to confide.
"What makes you say that?” The best avoidance tactic—answering a question with another question.
"Oh nothing really, just the way Braedon looks at you and the way you avoid him like he has the Ebola virus."
So much for being discreet. If Griffin ever put two and two together ... She shuddered, not wanting to think about it.
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"Suit yourself. I've been told I'm a pretty good listener.” Symansky picked her book back up, a true crime novel.
Just look at the two of them. Successful women in a male-dominated environment. Attractive women, if she did say so herself. Intelligent women. Both of them unable to put work behind them, even in the pursuit of pleasure. She had already read the book in Symansky's hands, both of them turning to law and order and justice in their free time. Both of them alone. Not that she'd ever asked about the other woman's personal life, but she didn't act like someone separated from a significant other.
Significant other. Is that what Braedon had been to her? Had he been a partner in the complete sense of the word, not just the cover-my-back-I'm-going-in way? What if he was right? Was he right?
When she'd woken up from the medically-induced coma, her parents at her side in the Shock Trauma Unit at the University of Maryland Medical Center, her father had told her what happened and blamed the accident on her. If she hadn't been “boy crazy,” and promiscuous, and a drunk, she and her friend never would have been in a situation to be driving home that night. She'd believed him. She'd been wild and unruly, away from home for the first time in her young life. It had to be her fault. As soon as she'd sufficiently recovered from the broken leg, broken ribs, and punctured lung, she'd followed her parents back to Missouri, where she stayed for almost two stifling years, until she'd returned to Goucher College to complete her undergraduate degree.
Her head hurt with the thought the accident had been just that, an accident, not divine retribution for her sins, as her father claimed. Her whole life had been devoted to atoning for that mistake. If the whole thing hadn't been her fault, where did that leave her?
Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2] Page 12